


Things That Never Happened: Clark's Amnesia

by wheel_pen



Series: Alice [38]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Naughtiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of Alice series. When he wakes up, he has no idea where he is, or who he is. But no one else seems confused, so he tries to go along with it. This story is unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things That Never Happened: Clark's Amnesia

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Alice, my original female character, is new in Smallville. There is something special about her, and she and Clark form a relationship.
> 
> 2\. This series starts after the end of the second season—after the destruction of the spaceship and Clark abruptly leaving town.
> 
> 3\. Underage warning: This story may contain human or human-like teenagers, in high school, in sexual situations.
> 
> 4\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            The first thing he saw when his eyes fluttered open blearily was red. Red boots. Shiny red boots with amazingly high heels and laces up the front. They were propped on the couch he was apparently lying on, and he found them fascinating. Gradually it occurred to him they were probably attached to something, or rather someone, and without turning his head he let his eyes follow the boots up shapely, feminine legs to a knee-skimming black skirt, a tight red and black t-shirt bearing a skull and cross-bones, and finally to a pale, delicate face framed by dark, curly hair. The girl appeared to be asleep, which was fine with him because he thought he could spend the rest of his life just watching her.

            Too few minutes ticked by in the quiet living room in which he found himself until the girl seemed to sense she was being watched and shook herself awake. Her eyes were the bluest blue he’d ever seen and he was mesmerized by them. Meeting his gaze, the girl smiled a little bit and straightened in her chair, dropping her red-booted feet to the floor. “Hi,” she said softly, reaching in to ruffle his hair. He liked the feeling of her hand on his skin and turned his face into it, briefly closing his eyes and returning her smile. “How do you feel?”

            He thought about it for a moment. “Okay,” he decided cautiously. As far as he could tell, nothing hurt. But he hadn’t tried to move much.

            “Can you sit up, maybe?” the girl asked, and he complied slowly, swinging his feet down to the hardwood floor and straightening himself with her assistance. “Still okay?”

            “I’m a little dizzy,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

            “Well, that was quite a whack you took,” the girl informed him. Her tone was light but her eyes were concerned. “Brandon just picked up a meteor rock randomly and—“ She broke off, and he could see that she was upset he’d been injured.

            “It’s okay,” he assured her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I feel better already.”

            She seemed to appreciate the comment. “Well, I took care of Brandon, anyway. He won’t be sucking the melanin out of anybody else from now on.”

            He wondered if she meant that metaphorically, or perhaps he’d misheard her. The sentence didn’t make sense, at any rate. Before he could ask, however, he heard footsteps behind him and turned—but there was no one there, just the empty kitchen. Confused, he looked back at the girl. “I thought I heard—“

            The footsteps continued to approach and he glanced above his head, out the windows, up the stairs, x-raying them looking for the people walking. “Clark!” the girl admonished, and when he snapped back to normal vision he saw she had sunk into her chair, her face drawn and clammy. She looked like she was about to puke.

            He dropped to his knees beside her chair. “Are you okay?” he asked worriedly. There was a bathroom just down the hall from the kitchen, he’d seen it while x-raying. He could have her there in a millisecond.

            “Were you using your x-ray vision?” she questioned, a bit perturbed. He was glad to see that she was recovering already.

            “Yes,” he admitted in confusion. Was that a bad thing? “I heard footsteps but I didn’t see anyone.”

            She gave him an odd look. “Well, at least you could _warn_ me next time,” she muttered after a moment, then sighed and put her hand on his cheek. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

            He smiled. She was very nice, and very pretty. He wondered what her name was. He was assuming his was ‘Clark,’ unless that was just some kind of exclamation she had used. Somehow he thought that not knowing his own name should bother him more, but he felt as though he were used to answering to many different names anyway.

            There were more footsteps, and he realized they were coming from farther away than he’d thought as the people making them were only now reaching what must be the porch off the kitchen. Sure enough, a moment later the outside door opened and two adults came in. They were both 40ish, a blond man and redheaded woman in sturdy-looking work clothes that a quick glance said were much like his own. They looked immediately towards the couch upon entering and both seemed immensely relieved when they noticed he was awake. He and the girl stood.

            “Clark!” the woman said. Oh, good, he was right. She hurried over to him and reached up—a long way up—to feel his forehead and cheek in a gesture that felt very maternal to him. Perhaps she was his mother.

            “How are you feeling, son?” the blond man questioned, coming over to squeeze his shoulder. Possibly that indicated this man was his father, although he seemed to recall that some people used ‘son’ as a generic term for any young man. Apparently he was a young man. Getting to a mirror soon might be helpful.

            “I’m feeling okay,” he replied.

            “He just woke up a minute ago,” the girl reported. “He said he was a little dizzy.”

            The woman gave her a warm look, and he had his first moment of panic—what if this beautiful girl was his _sister_? He tried not to look at her as the redheaded woman urged him to sit back down on the couch. “Do you still feel dizzy, sweetie?”

            “No, I feel pretty good, actually,” he assured them, turning what he hoped was a comforting smile from one to the other. These people seemed quite nice, and so concerned with him. He didn’t want to worry them. He must not have been acting correctly, though, because the woman and the man exchanged dubious glances over his head. “Really, I’m okay—“ he repeated, taking the woman’s hand.

            She gasped and yanked her hand out of his loosened grip as if in pain, and his eyes went wide. “Sweetheart, what happened?” the blond man asked, with concern.

            She was feeling her hand carefully. “It’s okay, Jonathan,” she insisted, looking at him—tentative Clark—tightly. “I think maybe his strength control is just a little bit off.”

            The man—Jonathan—turned a stern gaze on him. He felt very badly about hurting her, but what the heck was ‘strength control’? He didn’t squeeze her hand any harder than he had the girl’s, and _she_ hadn’t complained. Maybe the older woman was just more... fragile? He would remember that. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” He hoped they realized he was being sincere.

            Jonathan sighed. “It’s okay, son,” he told him, patting his shoulder. “I guess you just aren’t _completely_ back to normal yet. Just be careful, alright?” He nodded. He would be careful, although he didn’t really understand what he needed to be careful _with_.

            The dark-haired girl scooted closer to him and wrapped her arm around his, laying her head on his shoulder. He didn’t _think_ that seemed like a very sisterly thing to do, but he couldn’t be sure. He decided to refrain from responding, just in case he responded the wrong way—or with too much strength. The redhead woman cleared her throat. “Well, sweetie, do you feel like eating something?”

            He thought about it. “No, I’m not really hungry,” he decided. “Thank you, though.”

            Again the woman and man glanced at each other. “Now we _know_ there must be something wrong,” the man said, only half-jokingly, “if Clark Kent isn’t hungry.”

            Clark Kent. That must be his full name. He felt a little surprised, as if he had expected it to be something else. He couldn’t figure out what, though. “I’m sorry,” he tried earnestly. He didn’t want to upset anyone, not when they were being so nice to him. “I could eat something, if it wouldn’t be any trouble...”

            “No, of course it wouldn’t be any trouble,” the woman replied slowly. Then she smiled, and he smiled back. “I was going to make your favorite tonight anyway.”

            “Oh, good, my favorite,” he answered, with what he hoped was the appropriate enthusiasm. He had no idea what ‘his favorite’ was supposed to be.

            The woman gave the blond man a look, then disappeared into the kitchen. The man sat down on the couch, on the other side of Clark. Clark. He had to remember that. The blond man then gave the dark-haired girl a look, and she patted Clark on the arm before going into the kitchen herself. All these significant looks—was it possible they were telepathic? He dismissed that idea, however, since it was apparent none of them realized he had no clue what was going on.

            Once it was just the two of them in the living room, the man asked confidentially, “Clark, are you _sure_ you’re feeling alright?”

            “Yes, I feel fine, thank you,” Clark assured him politely. Perhaps he was looking for elaboration? “The dizziness is gone, and I don’t feel any pain or nausea. I feel perfectly normal.” Well, except for his memory being a blank.

            “You’re just acting a little odd,” the man pressed carefully.

            “In what way?” Clark asked quickly. Perhaps if he had more information on how he _should_ be acting, he could mimic it better.

            The man rubbed a hand through his hair with a sigh. Hmmm, this man was blond, and though tall and muscular, didn’t have quite the same built as Clark. The woman, his wife apparently, was a redhead and hardly of an Amazonian build. Neither were likely to have produced the solid, dark-haired Clark. Or the beautiful dark-haired girl, for that matter. Although there were always recessive genes...

            “It’s... hard to explain, son,” the man finally decided. Not much help at all. He patted Clark’s shoulder in a familiar gesture that he found comforting. “I’m sure you’ll be back to your old self in no time, though. Especially with some of your mother’s cooking in you.”

            Ah, confirmation. Clark was happy she was his mother—she seemed very nice. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.”

            The smell of hot food drifted out from the kitchen and the woman—his mother—called, “Come and get it, boys!”

            Clark and the man—his father, he was assuming—stood from the couch and ambled into the kitchen, where four places had been set around the table. For a moment Clark watched the dark-haired girl interacting with the wo—his mother, trying to deduce if they too were related. Finally at one point the girl said, “Thanks, Mrs. Kent,” and Clark barely restrained himself from heaving a sigh of relief. It was just coincidence, then, that of all the people in the room, they happened to look the most alike.

            “Here you go, Clark,” his mother announced, handing him a plate. There was a slab of some reddish-brown substance made of ground meat, a pile of stiff, lumpy mashed potatoes, and a thicket of green beans.

            “This is my favorite?” he asked in surprise, staring at the food distastefully. Fat, excess carbohydrates, salt—even the green beans had been cooked in water, leaching out whatever minerals they might have afforded him. How could people survive on this? He felt everyone staring at him and realized his comment was inappropriate. Quickly he repeated, in a cheerful tone, “This is my favorite!” Then he sat down quietly.

            After a moment the others joined him. He waited until the others had started eating, then took a closer look at the food items on his plate. He didn’t really need to eat, of course. The environment of this planet presented little challenge to him and he had not come close to diminishing his body’s supply of resources. However, it was apparent the others expected him to consume the food anyway, and he wondered about that. _Eating can be a social occasion_ , he vaguely remembered. People ate often, multiple times a day, just for the pleasure of it.

            A thought began forming in Clark’s mind as he pushed the mashed potatoes around on the plate. Maybe he was not the same as these people. The idea made sense to him intuitively—he felt like he had long been set apart from those around him. Like there was something... _different_ about him. The woman had been injured by his normal grip, and they had mentioned that he should ‘control’ his strength. So perhaps he was actually quite a bit stronger than they were. And his body metabolized differently.

            The girl, though, was a puzzle. She hadn’t complained about his strength, yet she was eating the food, yet she appeared to have felt pain when he used his x-ray vision. Very, very odd.


End file.
